


Inside Voices

by Volant



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, implied library makeout sesh, lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 02:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5147267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Volant/pseuds/Volant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brienne's trying to study. Jaime gets bored.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inside Voices

“We should make out,” Jaime says, and rocks back in his chair. Brienne glances up from her laptop. He’s got his arms folded over his Casterly Rock band t-shirt, and he’s smiling just wide enough that Brienne can see the glint of teeth between his lips. His hair’s a mess--he just got back from jogging, and the wind’s kicking up--but he still looks like some kind of god. His green eyes almost look serious.

“Sure,” Brienne says. She huffs and glances back down at the screen of her computer. He’s supposed to be helping her with a project for her American Lit. class. She’s trying to read “Trifles.” Jaime’s bored.

“Seriously,” he whispers. “We’re in the stacks, Brienne. This is our one chance to act like dirty freshmen kids.”

“Right,” Brienne says, and scrolls down a page. Jaime likes to flirt. He likes to watch her turn red when he does, thinks it’s hilarious. They’ve been friends for a couple years, after a wild frat party (and a drunk Ron Connington) had resulted in mutual broken noses. Brienne’s okay with being friends. Sometimes Jaime doesn’t like to act the part--or at least, he doesn’t understand the concept of personal space--but that’s fine too. Brienne’s had crushes on boys before. They never last.

Brienne stops reading when she feels the toe of Jaime’s tennis shoe push at the hem of her jeans.

“Are you trying to play footsie with me?” Brienne says, without looking up. She kicks Jaime’s foot away.

“Man’s got to try,” Jaime says. Brienne can see Jaime leaning forward in her peripheral vision. She bends her head down a little further.

“Brienne,” Jaime says. He reaches forward and brushes the tips of his fingers against hers. “I want to talk to you.”

His voice is softer now, and serious. Brienne almost glances up.

“You know last week?” Jaime says. Brienne does remember last week--Friday night, coming home to find Jaime slumped over next to the landlord’s potted ficus. Drunk.

She nods.

“You remember what I told you?”

Brienne had hauled Jaime into her living room and put him at the kitchen table while she brewed coffee. He’d been singing an old song, one she’d learned in high school. One about a maiden and a bear. His words had been slurred and heavy.

“You know,” Jaime’d said when Brienne placed a steaming mug in front of him, “I really love you.” When Brienne hadn’t answered, he’d reached out to grab at her hand, and missed. Then Jaime’d looked up at her and repeated the statement. His eyes were watery.

Brienne had said she loved him too, and put him to bed on the couch in her living room. The next morning, Jaime had been hungover. Brienne had assumed that he either didn’t remember, or didn’t want to.

Brienne looks up, finally, and meets Jaime’s gaze across the spindly library table.

“I remember,” she says.

“I meant it.”

Somehow, Jaime’s managed to fit his fingers in between Brienne’s, resulting in some strange, backwards hand-hold. Brienne tugs her hand away, but he doesn’t release. He is still looking at Brienne.

“Oh, Gods,” she says. “No you didn’t.”

“What,” Jaime says, and frowns. “You don’t believe me?”

“Jaime, you were drunk.”

“Brienne, you know how I get when I’m drunk.”

Jaime gets honest. Excrutiatingly honest. Drunk Jaime is how Brienne found out about Cersei, about Tyrion, about every dark thing Jaime’s ever done. The first time Jaime called her his friend, he was drunk. The first time he put his arm around her, the time he asked for her number and told her she had beautiful eyes.

“I know you didn’t mean it,” Brienne says. “You don’t have to pretend.”

“Okay,” Jaime sighs, and pulls his hand out of Brienne’s. The sudden loss of contact makes her want to shiver. She thinks he’ll leave, and that will be that. The joke will be over.

Instead, Jaime reaches forward and closes her laptop. Then he pushes himself up so that he’s half-standing, and half leaning against the edge of the desk. He reaches forward so that one hand is resting on Brienne’s cheek--the one with the scar.

“I don’t bullshit things like this, Brienne,” Jaime says. Brienne stands, and she means to pull away--she really does--but instead, she lets Jaime pull her forward so that they’re stretched out above that desk, forehead to forehead. His hand slides back so that his fingers rest in her straw-like nest of hair.

“I’ll take you out to dinner,” Jaime says. “We’ll go to a movie or hike, or whatever counts as dating. If you want too. I want too, I mean. If you don’t…” his hand begins to loosen.

“Don’t,” Brienne says before he can pull away. She flings a hand out and grabs a fistful of Jaime’s t-shirt. He smells like sweat, and dirt, and faded cologne.

“Don’t what, Brienne?” Jaime says. She can almost taste the smile that’s tugging at his lips.

“Well,” she says, and glances down. “We are in the stacks.”

 


End file.
